Her eyes,
Neria noticed, was not quite as orange in the human form as they were when she
was a bird. Closer to yellow. Her hair was as black as the raven’s feathers had
been though, and her features handsome, almost masculine in their boldness, but
beautiful all the same. She was a little taller than Neria, who herself was of
above average height for an elf, and her small mouth was curled in an
expression of contempt as she descended the steps. As for her dress – well,
Neria could tell that it was not only magical ability that she and this
shape-changing witch had in common. The dress was flimsy enough that Neria
would have worn it with pride, consisting of a piece of cloth the colour of a
dark, red, Antivan wine, casually falling over her breasts in such a manner as
to cover as little as possible without being completely redundant and a cowl
over the head. A necklace of raven-feathers and bear’s claws hung around a
fair, long neck and were tied into armbands and in a belt around her waist,
with a black skirt below that seemed to be made from leather.

“Are you a
vulture, I wonder?” she went on, speaking a sing-song, accented voice that
Neria assumed was how the Chasind spoke. “A scavenger, come poking amidst a
corpse whose bones have been long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come
into these darkspawn-filled wilds of mine in search of… easy prey?”

She
continued to walk until she was at the bottom of the stairs, level with them.

“What
say you, hmm?” she purred. “Scavenger or intruder?”

Realising
that the men were too struck, either by fear or the natural law that said men
lost their ability to speak coherently when presented with near-naked breasts,
to reply, Neria piped up, “We are neither. The Grey Wardens once owned this
tower.”

“’Tis a
Tower no longer,” she pointed out. “The Wilds have obviously long since claimed
this desiccated corpse.” She paused, and walked again, away from them this
time, out towards the tottering archway they had entered through. “I have
watched your progress for some time. Where do they go, I wondered…why are they
here? And now, you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?”

“You fear
barbarians will swoop down upon you?” she asked, raising her arms in a mocking
gesture.

“Yes,
swooping is bad,” said Alistair, matching her tone.

“She’s a
Witch of the Wilds, she is!” exclaimed Daveth, finding his tongue from wherever
he had lost it for the past few minutes. “She will turn us all into toads, she
will!”

It was
amusing to hear the smooth-talking Denerim cut-purse revert to the accent of a
village farm-boy faced with what must be, for him, mortal terror. The ‘Witch of
the Wilds’ was what rural Ferelden women in this part of the country threatened
their children with if they did not behave. The fear, no doubt, ran deep. This
woman was certainly a witch, and lived in the Wilds, but as of now, Neria saw
no reason to fear her more than any other mage.

“Such idle
fancies, these legends,” she responded with a dismissive smile. “Have you no
minds of your own? You there, elf – women do not scare as easily as little boys
– tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.”

“I am Neria.
A pleasure to meet you,” was Neria’s answer, accompanied by the most disarming
smile she could summon.

“Now that is
a proper, civil greeting, even out here in the Wilds,” the Witch smiled back. “You
may call me Morrigan.”

There was a
moment there, the breeze blowing through the trees and dilapidated ruins, when
Morrigan and Neria looked at each other, blue eyes and yellow, and the others
seemed to grow somehow smaller, as though they would never share the
understanding that two mages did, and could.

“Shall I
guess your purpose,” said Morrigan, turning away again and walking towards
Alistair. “You sought something in that chest, something that is here no
longer.”

“Here no
longer?” Alistair’s eyes narrowed as he looked upon her. “You – you took them,
didn’t you? You are some sort of…sneaky witch thief!”

“How
very eloquent. How does one steal from dead men, I wonder?” she shot back.

“Quite
easily, it seems,” said Alistair, gesturing towards the broken chest. “Those
documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them.”

“I will not,”
replied Morrigan, her frown quite fearsome. “For it was not I who removed. Invoke
a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish, I am not threatened.”

“Then
who removed them?” asked Neria pacifically.

“It
was my mother, in fact,” she said, raising her eyebrows with a half-smile.

“Well
then, can you take us to her?”

“Now there
is a sensible request,” answered Morrigan. “I think I rather like you. Follow
me, then, if it pleases you.”

They began
to walk behind the mysterious witch, Neria and Alistair in front, the other two
trailing behind, Daveth obviously in a state of fear.

“She’ll
put us in the pot, she will…,” Daveth was whispering to Jory behind her.

“If
the pot is warmer than this forest, it will be a nice change,” replied Jory.

Which
was the most intelligent thing he had said since she had first laid eyes upon
him.

#

Their walk
was a long one – and also completely free of any encounters with darkspawn,
wolves or any animal bigger than a rabbit. It made Neria not a little
suspicious, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

‘Mother’
proved to be a grey-haired and wrinkled but otherwise hale and hearty woman in
a faded green dress. There were faint indications of beauty behind those
wrinkles, but one would have to have look very hard to find them.

“Mother,”
said the black-haired Witch, “I bring with me four Grey Wardens who - “

“I
see them, dear,” the old woman interrupted her. “Hmm. Much as I expected.”

“Are
we supposed to believe you were expecting us?” asked an incredulous Alistair.

“You are
expected to believe,” the woman said, a playful glint in her eye, “nothing.
Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide, either way one’s a fool.”

Neria
knitted her brows as she tried to figure that out, while Daveth and Jory began
to bicker about whether or not they should even be talking to her. Morrigan
shook her head in disgust, but the old woman fixed a glassy eye on Neria and
asked, “What about you, elf? Do you believe what they do, or does your woman’s
mind tell you something different?”

Neria
weighed her words.

“I’m
not quite sure what to believe,” she said.

“A statement
that contains more wisdom than at first appears,” chuckled Morrigan’s mother. “Always
be aware, I say…or is it oblivious? I never can decide.” She sighed. “So much
about you is uncertain, and yet, I believe. Do I? Why, it seems I do!”

Quite
uncertain what to make of this seemingly random drivel, Neria looked hesitantly
towards Alistair, who shrugged, and muttered, “So this is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds?”

“A Witch of
the Wilds, is it?” cackled the old crone, on whose hearing, at least, age had
clearly taken no toll. “Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such
tales, though she would never admit it. Oh, how she dances under the moon!”

It
was Morrigan’s turn now to roll her eyes.

“They did
not come here to listen to your wild tales, mother,” she said, still in the
sing-song lilt.

“True,”
said her mother, her voice suddenly quite lucid. “They came for their treaties,
yes?”

She began to
walk towards the small hut in which it seemed she and Morrigan lived. They
could hear her continue to talk as she was inside and when she came out,
holding some scrolls of parchment in her hand, she admonished them not to
bother about the broken seals, saying they had worn off a long time ago.

“Take them
to your Grey Wardens,” she said, “and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater
than they realise.”

“And
how do you know that?” asked Neria.

“Do I?”
those old eyes gave her a piercing gaze, even as she chuckled again. “Perhaps
I’m just a crazy hag with a penchant for mouldy parchment.”

“Well,
you have what you came for,” said Morrigan, “time for you to go, then.”

“Do
not be ridiculous, girl, these are our guests,” her mother cut in.

“Oh very
well,” muttered Morrigan. “Come, I can take you back to the edge of the Wilds
before the day is over. I know a shorter way.”

And with
that, she began to march away. Neria looked from the daughter’s shapely figure
to the mother’s still-cackling face, and stifling the questions she had in her
mind, followed the daughter.

#

As it turned
out, Morrigan led them well beyond the river, taking them through a path in the
woods that Alistair swore was not on any map and brought them almost to the
point where they had first seen the darkspawn.

“I shall
leave you here,” she said, with a yawn. “Even you can find your way back to
your fortress from here, I’m sure.”

Considering
that they could just about make out the highest towers of Ostagar from where
they stood, this was not an unreasonable assumption. Alistair winced as the
Witch stepped away and almost quick as a blink, transformed into a raven and
flew away before anyone could offer a thanks or a farewell. Not that anyone but
Neria would have, of course.

It was
already quite dark, and though Ostagar was within their line of sight, it was
still quite a long way to walk, with the threat of wild animals and darkspawn
ever-present, especially now that they would be going by the conventional route
and not the secret paths shown by Morrigan.

“Camp,” he
said. “We should get some rest and make for Ostagar in the morning.”

“As you say,
fearless leader,” said Neria, and began to throw together some kindling for a
fire. Alistair watched as she lazily put together just enough twigs as to form
a little cone and snapped the flame to life. His own experience with mages was
somewhat limited and overwhelmingly negative. He had gone on a few missions to
hunt down Abominations – mages corrupted by demonic possession – and that was
about it. Duncan had emphasised often the need for an effective magical counter
to fight the darkspawn, and he knew that the other Warden corps – the ones in
Orlais and the Free Marches, for instance – definitely had a few mages at least
in their ranks. But Ferelden had a small contingent of Grey Wardens in the
first place, and Neria, if she joined, would be the first.

“Who’s
taking first watch?” asked Neria.

Jory
volunteered, so Alistair went over and pitched his tent. They would be in
Ostagar tomorrow, and in a day or two after that, they would face another
darkspawn assault. If they were able to rout the horde again, comprehensively,
he guessed that the King would then return to Denerim and allow Loghain or the Teyrn
of Highever, Bryce Cousland, to command the forces he left behind. The Wardens
would split between a contingent remaining at Ostagar while a few would return
to Denerim to take measures to strengthen the order, liaise with the Grey
Wardens in other Kingdoms and prepare an effective strategy to find and tackle
the Archdemon.

The
recruits, he knew, had not been told about the Archdemon. In fact, it was not
something the Wardens often spoke about at all, outside of their own ranks. They
would be told after the Joining, those that made it. He looked at the three –
Jory hogging a leg of wolf, Daveth making some terrible jokes and Neria,
looking at both of them with narrowed eyes – and wondered whether the two men
would, or as far as Neria was concerned, should.

“You should
get some rest,” he said, looking at the elf. “You’ve bandaged your injuries, I
know, but some sleep would not hurt.”

She nodded
obediently and went towards the tent that Daveth had put up. Alistair walked around
for a little while, stepping into the darkness, listening for any sounds,
hoping not to feel that inevitable sensation that accompanied the approach of
darkspawn; a sort of calling sound in the head that was not really a sound.

When he came
back, the fire had burned very low indeed, and Jory sat by it.

“Wake me up
when you are ready to sleep,” said Alistair, moving towards his tent.

“We should
not have stopped here,” said Jory.

“What?”

“We should
not have stopped,” he repeated.

“The road is
not safe by dark. We would have had a lot of difficulty were a wolf or bear to
attack us after nightfall,” said Alistair.

“But you
cannot…not with her, not…now she will
make me do it again, again, betray my Helena…”

Alistair
scowled.

“This does
not involve me,” he said, and entered his tent.

But it did.
He knew it did.

When his
turn to keep watch saw him hear the sound of wolves baying close by, and he
called out to the others to wake up and come out, he could not help but notice
that neither Daveth nor Jory looked as though they had been sleeping, and
Neria’s wound was bleeding afresh.

#

As they
marched back to Ostagar in the morning, Alistair was feeling quite relieved. For
one thing, he was looking forward to getting some decent cooked food – even the
military cook seemed like a culinary genius compared to what he and the others
had been making the past few days.

He was also
glad to get away from his companions. Such camaraderie as their last few
battles had established had evaporated due to whatever had happened in the tent
at night – what exactly, he did not care to know. They had dealt with the
wolves that attached their camp easily enough, but since then, neither Jory nor
Daveth could even bear to look at each other, while Neria only spoke in cruel
laughs and cutting remarks.

Ostagar’s
tall wooden gate emerged before them, and the guard waved them in. Daveth and
Jory went different ways – the Knight to the makeshift Chantry for some form of
absolution for his sins with the elf, no doubt, and the cutpurse to the
Quartermaster for a refill of ale.

“I'm
going to speak to Duncan,” said Alistair. “You can rest for a bit until then.”

“I'll go
give that flower to the kennel-master,” said Neria. “My arm could do with some
proper healing too. You should come too, let’s visit Wynne.”

Alistair
gave her a noncommittal nod and went on towards Duncan’s tent.

Duncan was
reading a letter when Alistair reached his bright campfire. He got up to welcome
the younger Warden and they embraced. It was a cold winter morning, and
Alistair hoped he could get some warm tea soon. But this was a priority.

“I am glad
to see you back, Alistair,” Duncan said. “I hope you were able to accomplish
all that was asked of you.”

“We got the
darkspawn blood all right,” said Alistair, handing over the small brown chest
in which he had kept the stoppered vials.

“And the
treaties?”

“Those too.
Though – well, they were not at the Tower, Duncan.”

His mentor's
eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“They were
stolen?”

“I don't
know – we were accosted at the Tower by a woods-witch who called herself
Morrigan. She took us to her mother, who claimed to have saved the treaties and
kept them safe for us. They were…apostates, certainly. Hedge witches.”

“That's...interesting.
Did they seem harmful?”

“Actually,
they helped us. This Morrigan woman escorted us back to camp, cutting our
travelling time to a day,” admitted Alistair, and in a few brief words recounted
the particulars of their encounter.

“So they
seemed like harmless hedge witches, then?”

“I suppose
so.”

“Maybe this
is something we should look into after the battle with the darkspawn. Perhaps
you can lead a small contingent of Wardens there to find out more about them.”

“I was
thinking we should inform the Templars who are here already,” said Alistair.

Duncan shook
his head.

“You are not
a Templar any more, Alistair, and while these may be apostates, they are not
who the Wardens fight against.”

Alistair
found a kettle placed on a wooden table outside the tent, and poured himself a
mug. It was hot tea. Just what he needed.

“And what do
you think of our recruits?” asked Duncan.

Alistair
hesitated for a moment.

“They know
how to fight,” he said finally.

“Tell me
about the Knight.”

“Jory is big,
strong, and know how to swing a two-handed great-sword. He is not as stout in defence,
though, and loses his footing in battle at times. Nonetheless, his power is
undeniable. He could be an asset to our vanguard.”

“The cut-purse?”

“He isn't as
good a lockpick as I would have expected,” Alistair shrugged. “But he does know
how to wield a bow with accuracy and speed. Up close, he could handle his
enemies in melee with knives as well. Still, he is a little too superstitious
for my liking. He was on the verge of a nervous breakdown as we dealt with the
hedge witches.”

“And the mage?”

Alistair
poured out another mug of tea for himself before replying.

“She's
talented,” he said at last.

Duncan
knitted his brows.

“Is that
all?”

“She appears
to be a very powerful mage, Duncan,” sighed Alistair. “Given a little space to
manoeuvre and time to cast a spell, she could mow down enemies like a vengeful demon.
She's also likely as not to make a great battle commander. She has natural
grasp for tactics, especially using a mage – which is something most of us
don't, seeing as we do not often have mages in battle with us.”

“I am glad
to know it. Irving mentioned she was the brightest student he had seen at the
Tower in decades.”

“I also
think she should not join the Wardens.”

“What?” his
mentor’s eyebrows were raised.

“Let her go, get her a pardon from the Revered
Mother and let her return to the Circle,” said Alistair.

“A strange
assertion to make, Alistair, especially in light of what you have just said
about her battle capabilities.”

“She’s a
slave to the pleasures of the body, Duncan,” said Alistair.

“A fact
which Irving warned me about, and I had occasion to witness on our road to
Ostagar. Nonetheless, the Wardens’ mission remains defeating the darkspawn, not
following a code of morality.”

“In the five
days we were in the Wilds, her presence…,” Alistair hesitated for a moment,
“caused some unrest. I shall not tell tales, but I do believe her presence in
the Wardens could affect our camaraderie adversely. We are brothers in arms,
our trust in each other is our strength. An elf as beautiful as her, and as
broken as she is…”

“Morally
broken, do you mean to imply?”

“No, that’s
not it,” he frowned, trying to think of the right words. “I mean she’s had
problems – bullying and abuse – and she has her way of coping with it, which…I
suppose it is who she is now but I just think her instinct for pleasure and
vengeance may detract from the purpose and principles we follow.”

“You're
saying the order of Grey Wardens, a thousand-year-old institution, would be
destroyed because of one elf?” asked Duncan, that gravelly voice neither
mocking nor quite sharing Alistair’s apprehensions.

“I saw her
seduce Ser Jory and play – play mind-games with him, vicious ones, belittling
his performance, his manhood, his morals, all while doing what she could to
ensure he would want to take her again. And then last night – I do not know
what happened last night, but I think, that is, I suspect, that she seduced
Daveth as well,” Alistair got the words out, somehow, while trying very hard
not to picturise what he had just mentioned.

“So you
would have me send her back to the Tower and certain punishment by the Rite of Tranquillity
because men who should know better can't keep their hands off her?”

“Duncan,
she's seventeen and beautiful. I would not blame a man for wanting her as much
as I’d blame her for using that beauty in so careless and petty a manner – and
surely you can get her a pardon?”

“You gravely
overestimate my powers of persuasion. No, Alistair, I shall not forego a
battle-mage, even were she not as endowed with potential as this one is.”
Alistair opened his mouth to protest, but Duncan raised a hand to silence him.
“If she is broken, my lad, it is for us, as Wardens and comrades, to mend her
if we can. The Blight is not defeated by the power of our swords and staves
alone, it is the trust and loyalty we bear for each other. If she makes
it…past…the Joining, she will be one of us, and we will have to learn to deal
with her.”

“As you say,
Commander. You always did have a weakness for broken things,” muttered
Alistair, finishing the second mug of tea, which had gone quite lukewarm by
now. He could see a flash of golden armour in the distance, and quickly turned
to Duncan. “May I be excused, then? I should see a healer about my injuries as
well, not that they were too severe.”

Duncan
nodded, and then walked away from him, towards the approaching King, just as
Alistair passed out of sight behind the tent.

#

He was making
his way towards Wynne's tent when he saw Teyrn Loghain walking with his retinue
towards the Quartermaster. He stopped, waiting for them to pass. Then the
Teyrn's eyes fell on him.

“Warden,” he
said.

Alistair
bowed.

“Come with
me.”

Alistair
followed obediently. The Teyrn was more than a hero to him, like most who had
grown up on the stories of Ferelden’s freedom struggle against Orlais, he idolized
the man.

“You're –
Alistair, if I am not mistaken?”

“Yes, sir.
At your service.”

The Teyrn
seemed to be grinding his teeth as he spoke.

“How long
have you been a Grey Warden?”

“Just over
six months, sir.”

“What do you
think of this upcoming battle, then?”

Alistair
paused. It was a tricky question.

“I am sure
that you and his majesty have planned an appropriate battle strategy in
consultation with Duncan, sir,” he replied.

“You have
more confidence in us than we do, then. Did you know the King hopes to finish
the battle in one fell swoop, with a crushing victory over the horde?”

“I suspect
it may not be easy, sir, but no doubt you know best.”

They were
now some feet ahead of the guards. The Teyrn addressed him in a low whisper.

“I know who
you are, Alistair. I trust you will not forget your place, if things go ill for
the King.”

Leaving the
astonished Alistair rooted to his place, the Teyrn strode away. He was still
standing there when Neria came skipping up to him.

“I'm better
than ever,” she proclaimed with a girlish smile. She wore a white robe that was
several sizes too large for her. Alistair guessed it belonged to Wynne.

“And you
also seem to have run out of robes.”

Neria
laughed.

“No, this is
temporary. Wynne had to burn the robe I was wearing. I have a lot of spares in my
pack in the recruits’ tent. All my cuts and burns are healed. No marks, even.
Do you want to see my breasts?”

“Not that
the offer is not…err…appreciated, but I think I would rather not. For the
moment,” Alistair said, awkwardly.

“I was
pulling your shapely leg. Anyway, you should go to her too.”

“Yes, I was,
in fact.”

“Was that
Teyrn Loghain I saw you talking to?”

Alistair
nodded.

“Grumpy,
isn't he? Anyway, I ought to be getting changed so I can return this robe to Wynne.”

She
scampered off in haste, leaving Alistair to walk bemusedly towards Wynne's
tent.

#

He rested
through the afternoon, and when he returned to Duncan's camp as dusk fell, the
three recruits were there with the Commander. Duncan heard out their accounts
of the expedition patiently, not letting on that Alistair had already told him
everything. Neria had changed into a brief blue and black dress that began well
below her shoulders and ended just above her knees, but at least did an
adequate job of covering everything in-between. Alistair had never considered
himself a particularly perceptive person, but as they spoke, he caught the
self-importance in Ser Jory's account, the exaggeration in Daveth's and the
guilelessness in Neria's. While they tried to drum up what they had done, she
spoke of it all with excitement, trying to explain the thought process behind
their fighting tactics. To Alistair's surprise, she was full of praise for his own
fighting skills.

Finally, it
was over, and Duncan asked them to take a good night's rest.

“Tomorrow,
we shall have the joining ritual,” he said. “And then you shall truly be
Wardens.”

They were
just about to leave when a messenger peeked into the tent.

“A message
for me, boy?” asked Duncan, as the elf caught his breath.

“Yes, ser,
and also for the new Grey Wardens. The King requests you to attend him in his tent
for the evening meal.”

“Now?” asked
Duncan, surprised.

The elf
nodded, and disappeared as someone called to him from an adjoining tent.

Alistair
turned. Duncan and the recruits arose.

“What could
this mean?” asked Alistair.

“The King
must want to congratulate us,” said Jory self-importantly.

“Suddenly I
feel very high-and-mighty,” laughed Neria.

Duncan
allowed the others to walk a few paces ahead. Alistair knew his commander well
enough to know when he, too needed to hang back.

“Do you
think any of them will make it, Alistair?”

Alistair
sighed, and shook his head. “Who knows what the Maker will decide. The King
didn't congratulate me personally when I was recruited.”

Featured Post of the Day

About Me

Percy Slacker was bitten by Schrodinger’s Cat as a child, and has since then combined a deep fear of cats with an
abiding conviction that he both exists and does not exist at the same
time. This existential doubt has led him
to grow up to be a writer while not actually being a writer.

He lives in Mumbai with his family, his book collection and a firm
conviction that modern civilization is in an interminable decline.